Calm Before the Storm
by Rani-Girl
Summary: World War III is taking a greater toll on the nations than any war in the past. One night before another day of hell, they each take a few moments to reflect on their predicament.
1. Worry for Loved Ones

**I made myself sick staying up so late writing four of these out. I'm not sure when I'll release the other three and maybe more. I guess it depends on the demand and my willingness to spit out another one. Anyway, I don't own Hetalia. This story takes in place in a fictional future during a fictional World War III.**

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It had been hours since she moved her brother's head to her lap, threading her petite fingers through his straw colored hair as he breathed shallowly, drifting in and out of consciousness. Liechtenstein's back ached slightly from the constant sitting position. She shifted herself, careful not to disturb Switzerland.

It was difficult to reduce a nation to such a level of physical exhuastion or illness. If the nation were strong or large enough, it raised the bar to an extreme level of difficulty. Even then, though, the personification still lived. Prussia was proof of that. However, they weren't immortal either. Ancient Rome was proof of that. Too much instability for too long or large amounts of mass genocide had its effects on a personification.

The girl knew this first hand; while she had never been terribly large or powerful, her country had nearly met its end years ago. If it hadn't been for her big brother, she would have disolved completely. Who knows, perhaps she would have died.

Liechtenstein had been forced to flee for her life from her home, where she had previously been bed-ridden. The endeavor had sapped her energy straight away, especially when she ignored her body's wishes to stop in favor of continuing on until she collapsed in an alleyway.

She must have been close to the border, maybe even crossed it somehow, because Switzerland was wandering around there. His tattered clothes were fit for a commoner and he was struggling just to take care of himself, let alone his people. Still, he took in her in instead of leaving her there. He gave her whatever food he managed to scrape up, lying whenever she asked why he wasn't eating. Lichtenstein would later find out his real situation. It made her want to repay his kindness even more than she already had.

Now he was the one ailing, the one who needed to be taken care of. World War III was not being kind to him.

They were unable to retain their state of neutrality once Russia and Belarus conquered Austria and threatened her tiny, tiny country. Switzerland immediately took action, of course, sending plentiful troops to aid hers.

However, that seemed to be all part of the plan.

China had attacked France months ago, and while the French had yet to be defeated, certain divisions moved to attack the other end of Switzerland. This wasn't much of a problem, seeing as her brother's military was far from weak. The invasions could be handled easily.

It was when forces pushed their away through the north and south borders as well that her brother became stressed. Liechtenstein couldn't understand why they were spending so much time on them. In comparison to others, they were small and (when unprovoked) harmless nations. Maybe it was purely territorial. Maybe it was money. Maybe there a was point to made by invading neutral states?

As the armies advanced, more and more civilian lives were stolen. Entire cities were lost with each Swiss defeat. To be attacked on all sides took its toll on the military, and in time, her brother himself.

Switzerland stirred. He moaned in discomfort, cheeks flushed. Liechtenstein took the folded cloth off his forehead, dipped it in the bowl of water on the nightstand, squeezed it, and re-placed it on his brow. Her brother murmured something about prices under his breath. She smiled. Even sick, he was still worried about little frugal matters. That, or it was the rising inflation. Her frown reappeared.

Liechtenstein began to sing a lullabye, hoping to calm him.

When his boss wanted to pull forces out from her country, he fought tooth and nail to keep them there. Switzerland went as far as to tell his government he would head down to her frontline if he had to. She appreciated the gesture, but hoped he didn't go.

It made her feel guilty. He was once again struggling but her safety was his top priority. She knew that those soldiers were needed within his borders. They would be a great help against the growing enemies. Yet he refused to allow her land to fall in the process. Switzerland was such a kind, generous brother to her.

Liechtenstein knew he had issues with expressing himself. Even around her, he was guarded and reluctant to share his feelings. That was alright. She had lived with him long enough to know when he was happy or disappointed, and angry was a dead give away. In fact, she was aware that under the covers he was clutching a pistol tightly. It was just his way.

Her voice cracked as the song ended. She felt her eyes water. He was doing too much for her when his country was up against too much on its own. She wondered what would happen if they lost. At this rate, would he survive? If he didn't, what would become of her? She was feeling a bit off herself, but that wasn't important right now. If her big brother perished, nevermind the war - so would she.

She needed him more than just someone to depend on. Liechtenstein cared for Switzerland more than that. As his little sister, she loved him greatly. If only there was more she could do to help him.

Anything, just anything other than watching him suffer.

"Liechten."

The use of her nickname startled her from her thoughts. Switzerland stared up at her with tired, glaring eyes.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, a bit harshly. "Don't hold my head any longer. You need rest, too. I...I know you won't go to your own room, so lie down next to me."

Liechtenstein wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She gently moved his head from her lap back onto the pillow and moved crawl under the covers with him. (Her back thanked her.) She nuzzled her head in the crook of his neck. Switzerland hesitated for a moment before wrapping an arm around her.

"No more crying," he tried to gruff, only for it to turn into a sharp inhalation halfway through. "It is time for sleep."

"...Yes, big _bruder_. If it will make you happy."

He scoffed. "You care for me too much."

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**I just love the relationship between Switzerland and Liechtenstein. It's so sweet.**


	2. Misplaced Anger

During World War II, America had been as spunky and cheerful as he always was. Energetic, brash, bold, eager, and just a bit bloodthirsty. Although he understood the implications of World Wars, he chose to ignore them in favor of playing his favorite game of heroics. Why shouldn't he have? His economy was booming, little to none of the action took place at home, and the Allies were winning.

Now, during World War III, he was sitting alone in a Canadian bar, trying to drown out all of his thoughts. He had downed at least eight glasses by now and demanded another one. The bartender looked at him strangely, almost suspiciously, but poured him another beer, sliding it across the counter. America caught it before it could slide over the edge.

North Korea had had this pleasant little idea of dropping nuclear bombs on the states one night to kick off the start of a brand new war. Buffalo, New York; Huntsville Alabama; Evansville, Indiana; Denton, Texas; and Los Angeles, California. At this point, he couldn't nor didn't want to remember how that happened. He was surprised they didn't aim for D.C. Probably wanted to make everyone suffer before going in for the kill.

Members of the White House and Congress fled to Canada. So did he - boss' orders.

Foreign troops dropped in via helicopters and planes. The United States military was forced to focus its attention at home rather than in Europe or Asia. The economy plundered. Drafts were drawn up to ensure there were enough of their own soldiers to keep up with the North Koreans and Chinese. Due to the chaos across the Atlantic, none of their allies were able to send much help. Mexico was a wreck and Cuba was still mad over the embargment, so there wasn't much here either.

Oh, yeah - his brother _was_ helping out a bit. When he wasn't sending troops overseas to Britain and France, he could afford to send a squad or two down south of the border. Not to mention host highly elected officials who had never seen a battle up close and personal a day in their lives for free. He was a _great_ help.

"You want anything, buddy?" the bartender asked.

"Yeah," America snapped. He flicked his empty glass in the bartender's direction. "Another round."

He recieved a glare in return. "Not _you_. I already know we're gonna make a fortune off o' you tonight. I'm talking to _him_." The bartender gestured to the seat next to him.

"What're you talking 'bout? No one's there."

"I'm right here," someone whispered.

If he wasn't buzzed, America would have jumped out of his seat to run away from the surely haunted bar. Instead, he snapped his neck in the whisperer's direction. After a moment, the sight of his brother came into view. He didn't have that damned bear with him, either. Strange.

"'Ow long you been here?" he snipped.

Canada pulled a face. "Since your second or third glass. Don't you think you should...lay off on the drinks before you go broke?"

America stared at him through his lopsided glasses, then broke out laughing hollowly. "I'm already _broke!_"

The bartender drew in a breath, face turning red. America turned his attention to his glass while Canada assured the bartender that he would be paid completely tonight. He glared at the golden droplets clinging to the sides, wishing it were full of fresh alcohol.

"They won't even let me fight," he spat out bitterly, interrupting Canada's explaination. "I won't die... I CAN'T die... But they won't let me fight. I can't _fight for my own country._"

"I'm sure your boss has a reason." His brother laid a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off. "They have to."

America's lip curled. "Oh, they do alright. Wanna know it? Those bastards only care about their image, money, and own lives. None of them's ever been in a real fight. Doubt they ever fought in school, either. Those idiots know I can't die, but I'm too much of a _symbol_ to lose. Too_ important_ to get lost in some battle or captured." He let his forehead fall flat on the counter. "Where did I go wrong!?"

Canada rested his hand on his back. "I've never seen you act like this before. You must be really upset."

America lifted his head. He swatted the hand off his back. Canada recoiled.

"Never, huh!? Well, no. Freakin'. Duh! This is worse than the civil war and Vietnam put together. My citizens are dying and I'm stuck here with a bunch of freeloaders and moose lovin' freaks! I can almost hear them crying out. They're miserable!"

He scowled at his brother, who flinched. America continued, "I hate this war! I hate every war. I try to make the best of it by ignoring their cries and try to _win_. I try to win for them so they c'n keep their liberties that I worked so hard to gain for them. It's all I c'n do. I choose to mess around - I choose to! I donn' wanna focus on the deaths. I'd rather focus on the ones like us because we can't die. We can't bleed, be ripped apart, or drowned. We'll live forever for the most part unharmed."

He was trembling. He hated shaking. It was making him feel weak, which was fueling his anger. The alcohol running through his veins helped to further shorten his temper.

"I get where you're coming from," his brother tried to say.

America cut him off. "No, you DON'T. You've got guys over in Europe instead o' 'n me. You're helping out them more 'en your own brother! Y'ur lettin' my stupid feckers vacation here instead of - Oh, is Canadia getting mad?"

He did indeed look mad. Furious, in fact. His face was red, brow crunched, teeth gritted.

"Typical," he whispered. "Once again, you're thinking of no one but yourself."

"I'm soorrrryyy," he drawled. "Who got nuked 'gain?"

"Maybe if you paid attention more instead of feeling sorry for yourself," his brother hissed, "you'd know how many refugees have crossed my border. Thousands, _brother_. And you're lucky I'm doing anything for you in the first place."

The beer was really kicking in. The U.S. chuckled. "How's that?"

"All you've ever done is push me around."

"'Ave not."

"You put an American sticker on my forehead to ruin my plan to make everyone stop mistaking me for you."

"I was jus' playin'."

"You let everyone who's mad at you take it out on me."

"Big deal. You're fine."

"You ignore me almost every time I'm around, just like everyone else!"

"Make y'urself more noticable, then."

"I tried!"

America shrugged.

"Considering your treatment of me, I don't owe you anything," Canada spat quietly.

He gave him a deapan look, raising an eyebrow. "And Britain and France do?"

"At least they're not mocking me for supporting them."

"At least they can fight their battles."

"There you go again!"

America snatched up his empty glass and raised it in the air. "Fine! A toast to my brother! My ass-dragging, moose-lovin', maple syrup obsessed, invisible, useless brother. Can-nay-dee-uh!"

He let his arm drop, turning back to him. "Are you happy?"

Canada just shook his head, hair flying rapidly. He stood up, dug money out of his hoodie pocket, and slammed it on the counter. "Pay for the rest yourself." He stormed toward the exit. "Why do I bother?"

America scoffed, ignoring the bartender's dirty look. "Who needs ya, anyway?"

Tomorrow, once he got over his hang over, he would feel the stupidest he had ever felt. He would rush over to his brother's, apologize profusely for taking out his anger on him. Explain that he was tired and drunk, needed an outlet for his held in rage against his own government. He would ask for the forgiveness he knew he didn't really deserve. Tomorrow.

Right now, as he lay his head in his arms, he only wanted to slip away from reality for at least a few minutes and pretend the war wasn't real.

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**Let's face it, as much as we love the North American brothers, their relationship isn't exactly the closest. They care about each other, but it's more sibling rivalry than anything else. Plus, I imagine America would be pretty ticked off if he was being forced to do nothing, especially by his own government. As for Canada's end of the rant - the guy has to have a snapping point, and a disastrous World War is the perfect time to vent constant frustration, eh?**


	3. Midnight Dwellings

It was such a shame his older sister had decided to side with the wrong side, Russia thought as he stared out the window, watching the blizzard with familiar apathy. He didn't like to fight family. It didn't feel right. Ukraine was his beloved older sister, no matter how much of a crybaby and poor judgment she evidently had. Besides, as much as he loved his baby sister, Belarus, every moment alone with her was a terrifying hell.

Well, it wasn't exactly Ukraine's fault, he figured. She may have fought against her boss' decision to go to war with her family. Maybe. Most likely. He sort of hoped. They cared for each other, no?

He sighed, reaching for the scarf around his neck. The moment Ukraine declared war, Belarus had threatened him if he chose not to discard the gift their sister had given him when they were young. He had to hide in the basement to escape her wrath when he refused.

Not only Ukraine, he missed the Baltic Trio as well. When he had his back turned for a one moment, they deserted him like that. The three headed back to their home countries, no doubt quivering in terror, to prepare to go to war with his side. They were now his enemies, too. He would have to fight them alongside his sister.

Belarus retired for the night long ago. She claimed it was to rest for tomorrow's invasion of Poland. Russia hoped he wouldn't find her in his bed. That was too creepy, even if her intent was just to sleep.

Nevertheless, at least he had her by his side. Russia detested the thought of being alone and at this moment, he felt utterly so. If only there were sunflowers instead of a snowstorm to cheer him up.

China and North Korea were hardly company, let alone friends.

Despite his history with China, the two barely interacted beyond political matters. The Chinese man did not want to be involved in this war, actually. He wanted to stay home, do whatever it is that the Chinese do, be content with life. He had no desire to fight his former friends.

At least that was one thing they had in common.

North Korea was a different story altogether. During business hours, all he did was talk to Russia. He went on yabbering about the new society that would emerge from their efforts, what punishments they should have for those who refused to see their way, or how quickly this dreadful war would end thanks to their brilliant strategies. All he did was talk about war tactics, war tactics, and more war tactics.

Russia was quite frankly sick of hearing it. He'd seen one too many wars in his lifetime. Each one was bloodier than the last. Curse technology for that. One part of him laughed with North Korea at the destruction and power, another prayed with China that the war would end and peace would be restored among friends. Externally, he was laughing, internally, he was praying. It hurt to be so torn sometimes.

Ah, well. That was life. It had always been that way, always would be. He of all people should have learned that by now. People could turn at the blick of an eye. Russia thought back to a certain revolution in particular, one where two lovers and four children had been brutally murdered by the ones they were trying yet failing so desperately to protect. He thought back to the paranoid man who let his own son rot in prison. He thought all the way back to the adulteress queen who brought their country into a golden age at one point instead of ruining him. They were never predictable.

It was too true how inhuman humans could be. Sometimes he wondered if only nations could feel lonely. Perhaps humans did not feel so, and that was why they fought so badly to spread the cursed feeling all over the world. Or perhaps they hated the feeling so much that to fill the void, they spread the curse to others.

Someone - he did not recall who - had once told him that people were born inherently evil. Another he could not recall said hate was taught. Who was right, he did not know. All he was certain of was that the thirst for power was eternal.

That brought another quote to mind. Two things were for certain, Russia remembered it said. Human stupidity and the universe; and the individual wasn't so sure about the universe.

When he thought about it, Russia wondered if nations were nothing but slaves to their people. Their bosses told them what to do, not the other way around. Germany, for example, did not think too lowly of Jews or very highly of concentration camps, but he did what Hitler told him to the end. Then again, it wasn't as if they were powerless to influence events. America had been the one to convince his founding fathers to start to the revolutionary war.

No, he decided, it didn't matter who was in charge of who. Russia knew whether it be nations or bosses, the spread of loneliness would never end. Mothers lost sons, fathers lost daughters, and siblings lost siblings no matter what. It didn't matter whether it was through death or separation. Nation or human, suffering was as eternal as the lust for power.

The thought made him sad. It made him miss his Baltic Trio again. It made him miss Ukraine more so now, because she had a right to cry when her boss forbade her from speaking to him in the past.

The weather began to clear. Russia sat down in his chair near the fireplace. He closed his eyes. If Belarus was in his bed, he wasn't taking any chances finding her there.

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**Russia isn't mentally stable, but he's not insane. I'm a bit worried about the flow of this, but my thinking was he was letting his thoughts wander to different places connected one way or another to his current situation, not really focusing on just one topic alone, and then pushing said thoughts away for another time.**


	4. Prayer for the Serious

**Yeah, I decided whether or not people want more, I'm just going to post these without waiting for a response. Hope you've enjoyed so far.**

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"Stop worrying so much and have a beer!"

Prussia held up the frothy stein above his head towards his pacing brother. He smiled slyly, twisting his Knights Cross in his other hand. His boots were propped up on the coffee table, ankles crossed. Gilbird flew around his head in circles like he always did.

Germany didn't spare him a glance. "How can I drink when I don't know if Italy is safe? He hasn't contacted me in days. With Austria and Hungary between us conquered, he could be being attacked as we speak! Agh, if only I could get my boss to listen!"

"Bosses were less intrusive in the past, eh, West?" Prussia joked. "Fine, more awesome beer for me."

He gulped down the golden liquid, immediately wishing he hadn't. His stomach churned, and he had to force his limbs not to spasm. He refused to let Germany see him like this.

Not that the blonde would have. He was too focused on the movement of his feet across the wooden floor boards.

"I haven't heard from Japan, either. I wonder if he is doing okay on his own."

Prussia laughed. "You act like a mother to babies!"

The fact that it actually hurt to laugh mentally scared him to death. Still, he kept the smirk on his face intact. It would mean his pride if his brother knew what was going on. After so long together, that was NOT happening.

"I am not! Japan, I have faith in. It's just this war is like no other before it. And Italy is as useless as ever. How can I not worry?" Germany asked him.

"By drinking beer?"

His brother's patience started to thin. "Would you stop coaxing me? I am not in the mood to get drunk, _bruder!_ This is serious."

Prussia shrugged. Personally, he wanted Germany drunk as he could get him. The stress was wearing him out more than showed. Brother like brother. The difference was that while he could hide it from his younger brother, his younger brother could not hide it from him.

It had been so long since his awesome country was dissolved; longer since his awesome empire fell. The blow had weakened him greatly, but becoming the representative of East Germany brought back his strength. Now that it was being attacked by stupid Russia and his crazy sister, he was drained.

He prayed to God several times a day to let him stay longer. He had to stay for the little brother he never quite had the relationship with that others did. Besides, where would the world be without the awesome Prussia to keep it balanced? So he made another prayer to God, clutching his Knights Cross loosely through leather gloves. Let him stay until the end of the war.

"I had hoped we would never reach this point again," Germany muttered to himself. "Why did we have to reach this point again?"

Because history was doomed to repeat itself. It would keep happening over and over and over again until all one wanted to do was rip his awesome hair out, laughing hysterically. Over and over, because nothing was constant, including peace. Because fate always wanted to let men learn the hard way that war was not as fun as they thought. It was God's gift to them for being so stupid all the time.

However, Prussia wanted to keep the mood light as possible, so he shrugged. "Come relax like your older brother. We can worry later, ya?"

The blonde stopped pacing to glower at him. "Is it possible for you to act rational?"

Of course it was. Acting rational just wasn't any fun though. Acting rational meant being serious. Acting serious meant contemplating all the losses. Losses meant tragedies. Tragedies meant he would be up all night crying like he was last night, praying so hard that God give him more time before he joins Old Fritz.

"Hmm, I don't know. Tell you what, let's having a drinking contest. If you win, I'll act serious. If I win, you relax with me," he replied without missing a beat.

His brother growled and continued his pacing.

Pacing instead of wandering around like an idiot lost in the market. Pacing instead of coming across a battle field, looking around at the bodies strewn across the grass. Pacing instead of catching the eye of a particularly awesome knight covered in somebody's else's blood, cleaning his sword with a dirty rag. Pacing instead of being picked up by said knight, who shielded his eyes against his chest because he was far too young to understand the scene he just took in. Pacing because now he was older and capable of understanding the situation with too much first hand experience.

Prussia felt the edges of his Knight Cross dig into his fingers.

"It's not fair," Germany muttered again. "Everything was going fine. This didn't need to start again."

It never did.

Prussia could feel his bones ache. He felt so elderly it wasn't funny. It wasn't fair that of all times, it would be now that he fade away like Ancient Rome. He wondered if his brother would remember him like he idolized the Italian's grandpa. Probably not. They were nothing alike.

The blonde stopped again, pounding his fist in his palm. "I must try again. I will talk to my boss again tonight. If he refuses to see reason, I will take a party with me to Italy."

His grip loosened as he his smirk fell. "No."

Germany's eyes darted his way. He was startled by the sudden change in tone. "What?"

"No," Prussia repeated. "If you do, your country will be in pain. You'll receive news of the amusing pasta boy soon enough. Word travels fast now'a days. Stay here, _bruder_. Plan accordingly for the next struggle."

Germany straightened. "I can't believe you actually said that. This is possibly the first time I've seen you pull it together in years. If at all."

Prussia stood up. Gilbird perched on his shoulder. He locked eyes with his younger brother. "Part of being the master of awesome is knowing when to not act out. Are we not soldiers? Part of the code that involves never leaving a man behind."

"Exactly! Which is why I must find out if Italy is okay."

"If you do that, I will report you."

His brother was taken aback. His eyes fell on how tightly Prussia was gripping his Knight's Cross again. He was confused.

Prussia cleared his throat. "But sometimes you have to. You have to let them go to fight their own battles. It feels terrible to leave them alone, I know. There is not always a choice, though. You would do well to understand that, West."

He could see Germany was struggling to make sense of his words. The blonde's eyes flickered from the gripped cross to his brother's eyes.

He would figure it out soon enough. Prussia couldn't stand the thought of seeing the look on his face when he did. He also couldn't stand the thought of letting him watch him fade away. He was a knight, a soldier. He would not let weakness show, no matter how much he wanted to. No hugs, no sappy words. Those were not awesome.

Eyes downcast, he said, "I've already passed everything to you."

With that, he moved past the larger man, avoiding his gaze as he walked towards the staircase, up to his room. It would be a miracle if he lived to the end of the war. At this point, he doubted he would make it the next few days. He prayed Old Fritz was watching over him. They both needed it.

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**Despite his wild attitude and immature behavior, Prussia still appears to be a religious man.**


	5. Hateful Hope

Austria's fingers danced on his knees in a lazy fashion as he imagined himself at home, playing a certain composition, a cup of warm tea nearby. He had played this particular piece so many times in the past that he had every sound memorized. From the slow, light beginning to the louder, more forced middle, all the way to the melancholy filled, dying end. It was a lovely piece.

He could see himself in another time, playing a different piece composed by Chopin. Hungary was there, listening quietly and smiling a small, adoring smile. Her hand was delicately placed on his shoulder, a sign of her affection. A grown up Italy, for whatever reason dressed in his old maid's uniform, danced around to the music. He held a broom close to him, as if it were a dance partner. Somehow, the little nuisance's behavior wasn't at all distracting.

Austria opened his eyes, allowing his hands to fall into his lap. He was starving. It was impossible for him to merely starve to death, but he wasn't a machine; he needed food to convert to energy. Ever since Belarus had captured him, he was only fed every once in a while. He couldn't guess what statement she was trying to make - "I am the one in control of you"? She had already proved that in a number of ways. Starving him didn't prove anything close to that any more.

He exhaled and rubbed his brow with his thumb and index finger. Belarus had also taken pleasure in stomping on his glasses. Thank goodness they were just for show. No, thank goodness she wasn't aware he only wore them to make himself more distinguishable. If she had, he could imagine her taking the shards to shove in his eyes, blinding him.

Since the war started, that girl was more bloodthirsty and insane than usual.

Austria had been given the liberty of watching her go hysterical the day Hungary was brought in to Belarus' 'special' prison for nations. North Korea had been there as well; he was the one holding Austria back as Belarus tortured the already injured nation. He was allowed to watch the Russia fanatic add to his ex-wife's large, purple bruises and deep cuts. If Hungary had been an ordinary woman, she would have been murdered by Belarus' knife. North Korea made sure to hold his head in place when he tried to turn away, shut his eyes.

While he was forced to observe silently, Hungary refused to give the same satisfaction. She was too weak to physically fight back, so she yelled profanities, shouted insults, and made fun of the girl's obsession with Russia. She taunted the fact that Russia would never love her like she wanted, repeated over and over that he was simply using her until he no longer needed her, which would be when he threw her away like an old toy.

The last point may have been an obvious lie, but it further enraged Belarus nonetheless. A swift kick to the jaw stunned Hungary's tongue.

Austria remembered fighting to keep his composure as the woman who used to beat him up as a child clenched her teeth to keep from screaming. It was the moment he truly regretted not being a capable fighter.

Hungary was carried off when it was over. He hadn't seen her since. There were no windows or clocks to aid him in telling time, so he had to guess how long it had been. The event had given him nightmares - about eleven so far. The few other times he had fallen asleep had been dreamless. Austria estimated that it was maybe two weeks ago, then.

He hoped she was alright.

By God, if the current Allies won the war and were able to free them, he promised himself he would heavily influence their decision on what punishments these horrible nations would receive. If he needed to, he would pester them day in and day out until a proper punishment worthy of these crimes was assigned.

If the current Allies lost, he had no idea what he would do. No doubt wither away in this cell until either the dissolution of his country or another, more prosperous war ended.

Both latter scenarios were so far away in the future. He hoped Russia and his team of monsters lost. He hoped they were defeated soon. He hoped they lost everything, from land to wealth to natural resources. He hoped they would spend the rest of their days right where he was being held, in this prison.

Austria wasn't used to feeling so angry or resentful. Annoyed, yes. Humiliated, yes. Frustrated, yes. Infuriated to the point of wishing nations could be assassinated, no. It was out of character for him to be. And yet he was.

Because this war was doing more than draining money or resources. It was plain sadism. Belarus and North Korea finally had an excuse to unleash all the violence they pleased to on just about anyone they wanted, a reason that had never been there previously.

It wasn't right. It wasn't right at all. A pampered snob (as Germany so kindly put it one day) like him could see that. Was there a soul alive who couldn't?

His stomach growled painfully. Austria wrapped an arm around his abdominal, trying to compress the aches. He needed food. His throat felt dry. He needed water. Not to mention a bath. And a bed. And new clothes that weren't bloody and torn. Most of all, he needed to know that Hungary was receiving better treatment than he was.

Yes, he was certain he was in Hell, alright.

Austria closed his eyes again, attempting to go back to the times where he would play piano for his servants, so absorbed in his music that not even Maria Theresa could draw him away from his beloved instrument. It was his sole way of staying sane.

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**Hm, not much to say about this one, other than I don't like how short it came out.**

**And thank you, _ZeldaandPikminforever_ for the review! I'll try to. This is kind of fun.**


	6. Such an Idiot

**Hahaha, you're all going to want to kill me for this, I know it! Feel free to throw tomatoes, but please don't kill me.**

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Romano cursed, every word coming out of his mouth inappropriate for the ears of the children roaming about outside.

He swore out against the enemy countries, the strong brigades advancing as he spoke, and their own weakling troops who ran away screaming half the time. He swore against God, who seemed to enjoy infuriating him to no end, that old potato bastard for not sending help, and ironically Spain, who _was_ sending in reinforcements, but wouldn't show up himself to get them out of this mess.

They were camped out at the remains of an already destroyed town. The majority of the civilians had miraculously survived, however the dead left behind more children than he could count. The sound of their cries was seriously irritating Romano, but he didn't have the energy to go outside the tent and yell at them to be quiet.

"_Idiota! _Why the hell didn't you get out of there?" he demanded of the sleeping figure lying on the cot, covers pulled up to his shoulders.

Romano couldn't stand staring at the bandages wrapped around his sibling's chest. Just like the bandages on the moron's cheek, they made him want to shake him until he woke up, scold and slap him silly for being so stupid, then march out of the tent in a huff before he considered actually hurting the twit for real. If he had to stare at those, too, he probably would.

The problem was, Veneziano probably wouldn't wake up to hear the angry rants of his angry older brother. At least not until tomorrow. He wouldn't be completely healed until the end of the week, either. Damn bastards. Somehow, the bomb that went off earlier that morning had a somewhat serious effect on a nation personification. How did that work!? Veneziano should have been up by now, complaining about being hurt and whining that Potato Bastard wasn't around to save him.

No, instead he was unconscious, breathing softly in that idiotic way of his, as if he were merely taking a nap. Stupid; Romano bet he was dreaming about pasta or pizza.

The older man's shoulders shook as he brought a hand to his face. He glared through his fingers at the body in front of him.

According to the men assigned to his sibling, he had been leading a unit on another run from work when the bomb went off. He had screamed like a little girl, running faster from the collapsing buildings. He repeatedly yelled to the roaring wind for his precious Germany, hightailing it out of there as quickly as his legs would carry him. One soldier reported that upon hearing a second little girl's scream - this one from a real little girl - the moron stopped in his tracks. Veneziano dove back into the smoke billowing behind him.

From there, Romano halted the explanation. He didn't need to hear anymore, he could piece it together on his own.

Once he arrived to the wreckage hours later, having run away from his own battles once again, he recognized the unit as his brother's. No one knew quite where he was, making his heart nearly stop in his chest. Romano rummaged through the debris, ignoring the bodies he managed to find in Veneziano's place. If he hadn't been so intent on finding the half-wit, he would have yaked. Darn it all, he was shocked his convulsing stomach didn't when one of his men found the idiot.

The younger Italian was under a broken wall, the little girl clutched tightly in his arms against the ground. She was passed out, but otherwise fine; Veneziano had taken the brunt of the damage. A woman claiming to be her aunt took her. Romano didn't pay any attention to the way she held her niece close, whispering thanks that the little girl was alright. He was too busy calling for medics.

"_Idiota!_" he hissed again. "What did you think you were doing!? Eh!? Trying to play hero? Who do you think you are, Hamburger Bastard!?"

Veneziano's blanketed chest rose quietly before going back down. It repeated the gesture over again and over again, as if that were his response.

Romano heaved a deep breath his eyes welled behind his hand. Never before did he have to worry about his little brother so much. He always bounced back fast, too fast not to be aggravating about it. Now, though...

What was the enemy developing!?

What if the next bomb committed a worse atrocity?

What if one of them didn't make it out in time?

He lifted his hand and ran it through his hair. What a pathetic weakling he was. Had he been in Veneziano's place, he doubted that he would have done the same for a child. His brother always was the better one, even if he was dumber.

Thin streams ran down Romano cheeks. He unclenched his teeth to heave another breath, struggling to keep his composure. One hand gripped the side of his chair tightly, the other his knee.

Thank everything in the world Veneziano was safe and alive and healing.

Thank everything in the world Romano had the chance to shake the stupid out of him when he awoke tomorrow.

Thank everything in the world he would soon have the opportunity to hug him to pieces.

Thank everything. Thank everything!

"Oh, _Fratello...!_"

* * *

**I admit it: I wanted an excuse to make Romano cry and show some affection towards Italy for once.**


End file.
